A dog's life?

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I often find myself envying dogs. Not unfortunate dogs skulking on developing world back streets, but the decidedly First World, premium-league dogs you see every weekend in Centennial Park.

I admit canine envy is an underwhelming state of being, but it's not a condition I suffer alone. Last Saturday, I spied Tom Cruise looking miffed that a pedigree poodle could command more support staff than he could. There it was with a team of personal trainers taking turns at the end of a leash.

You knew the chauffeur would be on hand later to take it to its next grooming appointment (I'm convinced this poodle was dyeing its hair). Then there would be the dietitians, the masseurs, the trust fund financial planners, the pet psychologists, the literary agent ... This dog was so pampered you could only imagine it drinking mineral water.

If "Our Mary" introduced blue heelers to Copenhagen as a riposte to the corgi, then you could hardly imagine them having a better time of it.

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Indeed, it seems these dogs have left evolution behind as they have escaped entirely the need to conjure with the necessities of survival. When you reach a level where someone is willing to wait patiently with a plastic bag while you pass your latest motion, you are truly post-Darwinian.

However, it's what the dogs have been deprived of that causes me the most jealousy. You see, many of them have been desexed. It may be argued that in being relieved of sex, the dog is missing out. But just consider the brain space it frees up.

Suddenly men would be intelligent. It would be the thinking equivalent of innumerate sports stars who feel able to give 110 per cent. Men relieved of sex thoughts would have 110 per cent of their brain space freed up, so why should the same not apply to dogs?

And then there's death. As far as we know, dogs can't appreciate that one day it will be dog gone. Knowledge of mortality is a great and preoccupying curse. Yet, spared this and all concerns about where the next meal is coming from, should we not expect more of dogs than stick-fetching and car-chasing? Should we really be marvelling when they sit or roll over, especially when they have to be rewarded with a pat or a treat straight afterwards?

Why can't we instead expect them to grapple with the mysteries of the cosmos? Rather than revealing their stomachs for a tickle, shouldn't they be revealing the answers to hitherto unfathomable problems? A cancer cure. Time travel. The hidden messages in Kylie Minogue lyrics.

Taking an economic rationalist point of view, how much bark are we really getting for our buck? People will scream about unmeasurable intangibles like love and loyalty, but what's the bottom line?

The Nobel prize for chemistry shouldn't go to an ageing professor with grandkids and the onset of Alzheimer's to worry about. This year's Nobel laureate should be a miniature Pekingese named Peaches from Woollahra.

Readers are invited to apply wit to anything that makes the blood boil. Send 500 words, with day and evening phone numbers, to heckler@smh.com.au. Submissions may be edited and published on the internet.